Ouroboros
by XxAngry-Evil-PoptartsxX
Summary: You found me-," he sounded closer this time, his voice still amused, but seeming to take on a sharper edge that had Hermione's skin prickling with unease. "Sssso desperate, sssso panicked—you kept looking for me in your quaint little home." Dark. Ghost AU. Reincarnation. Non-canon magic. Non-con.
**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.**

 **Author's Note:** **Okay, this was supposed to be a simple one shot with ghost sex (which, ended up with no smut somehow). I am not going to pretend to say that that was not my intention, but now, this has turned into some monster. Please be warned, if you are made uncomfortable by elements of sexual assault, violence, or triggered in any way because of a prior haunting, don't read this. If you are looking for fluff, don't read this. There will be some OOCness, simply because Hermione has no magic and has not led the life that she would have otherwise in the HP books. (I am also relatively new to writing these two, so there is that ahaha)**

 **I hope you all enjoy this! Some constructive criticism is most welcome, especially if its regarding characterization. I don't appreciate insults and such, but if you do, I will simply ignore it.**

* * *

 _ **Hermione**_ _._

She bolted as fast as her legs could take her, barely missing the dining room table at the center of the room in her haste to leave—in her haste to get the hell out before whatever had called her _bloody name_ could catch her. She could explain ominous stepping in the attic at ungodly hours of the night. She could explain the sudden disappearance of some of her items. She could even explain the sudden cold drafts that would choke her as she tried to read in her bedroom. She could explain it all with facts. Science. Logic. She takes pride in her ability to think rationally—to plan, to research, and to calmly rationalize the unexplainable. In fact, one could even call her a skeptic of the paranormal, having found no _actual_ evidence that such things even existed. But she had finally had it—hearing voices calling her name in the dead at night when her parents were _off in America for Spring break_ was the final straw.

She shouted when the chandelier at the center of the room suddenly crashed onto the dining table. She twisted away from the wreckage, aiming for the sitting room entrance where the front door resided. She just needed to make it to the door. She just needed to reach the bloody door and get the hell out.

 _ **Are you afraid?**_

It spoke up again as her feet sank into the softness of the dining room carpet. She was trembling with what she could identify as fear. Panic. And definitely, heaps of rage. How _dare_ this monster come into her home! She couldn't see it, but she knew there was someone there with how the hairs on her arms stood on end. She didn't want to know what the state of her hair even was, having already noted that with any sort of stress, it tended to flare out as if it were caught in a lightning storm. Somethingwas there—and it made no bloody sense!

There was no warning before the lights shut off. No ominous flicker before a thick darkness swallowed both Hermione, and her vision.

' _Shit.'_ She cursed as she banged her ankle on the small table at the center of the room, falling onto her hands and knees. She scrambled to get up, ignoring the pain in her ankle, as she, this time, avoided the table and grabbed tightly at the door. She wasn't necessarily panicking. But when the doorknob refused to turn, and the door refused to budge no matter how much she strained. Pushed. Yanked. She was starting to lose the little cool she had for the entire situation. "Just. Bloody. Open." She was hissing under her breath repeatedly, but it refused to move. So yes, she could definitely say that she was a believer _now._

 _ **I asked you a question.**_

It took everything in her power to stifle the scream that wanted to bubble from her throat. She took deep breaths, clutching tightly on the doorknob with trembling hands as the air around her seemed to drop to below freezing temperatures. She could physically see her breath leaving her, the glass of the door misting with each puff before something that almost felt like fingers ghosted onto the skin of her exposed arm.

 _ **I won't ask again.**_

She steeled herself for the worst, using her hold on the door as a form of comfort before releasing a heavy breath. "I don't fear you," she lied, cocooning herself with the anger. She refused to be terrorized in her own home. She refused to be a victim. Even if she couldn't see the bloody bastard. All she needed was to think.

 _ **Lie.**_

She hissed under her breath when a new set of fingers touched her other arm, its touch ice cold. It felt solid. It felt real. It felt like a person was actually there. How was that even possible? "Who are you?" She asked, her voice steadier than she truly was. Her words less panicked, less insensible, than she was truly feeling. Was it a ghost? Could it be a demon? ' _Something invisible that had an icy touch…'_

A cold laugh met her ears. It was the only warning she received before the light touch of fingers became harsh. She could feel hands gripping tightly onto her biceps, the pressure enough to leave bruises as she barely refrained from whimpering from the pain. It pulled and Hermione clutched tightly onto the knob for dear life. The force was strong, stronger than she could ever have expected, but she refused to let go. She was not giving in without a fight.

She grit her teeth as her hands began to burn from the battle. Her fingers aching from how unforgiving her hold was on the doorknob, but there was no way she would let whatever it was take her. "Let me go!" She snarled when the force did not relent, the fingers digging deep into her soft flesh until it gave and blood bloomed. She did not dare to look back into the abyss, focusing her vision on the knob between her two clasped hands as she twisted and fought for freedom.

Then it all stopped.

The ice cold that came with sharp fingers disappeared, and the lights came on just as the touch snapped out of existence. It was almost like the events had never happened, except for the bloody crescent marks on her biceps that still ached and burned. Hermione did not let go of the doorknob even when the world's axis righted itself. It was not safe even if the calm finally came after the destruction and the panic.

Her body was trembling, but she could not quite pinpoint if it was in anger, fear, or in relief. The adrenaline was still pumping through her veins like water bursting through pipes, so maybe it was a mixture of all three, she mused. She still did not turn back to look behind her, almost fearing what she would find if she looked back. "Who the hell are you?" She whispered to herself as she tried to breathe. To _think_.

Her mind was a mess of emotions, trying to understand just what happened mere moments earlier and how she was going to deal with it. How was she going to explain to her family in the coming week why the dining table was gone, or why the chandelier was missing? This is just so _absurd,_ Hermione thought to herself as she jumped through every thought, every explanation, and every book she had read even remotely relevant to this experience. Ghosts could not _possibly_ be real, but clearly, her nose scrunching in disdain at the sight of her bloodied biceps, they were. She was completely unprepared for something so—illogical.

That was why she needed to plan, why she needed to read, and why she needed to stop bloody shaking. Hermione breathed hard, trying to will the panic away from her mind before a soft thump over her head broke the silence.

Bloody perfect, it wasn't done with her yet.

Her body finally ceased its trembling, and she quickly found the courage to release her vice-like grip on the door to turn slowly and face the entryway she had run through. There was nothing there. She could see into the dining room, and her face grimaced in disbelief when she found that the room looked exactly like it _always_ did. There was no broken chandelier. There was no smashed table where the bloody chandelier had fallen onto it. _Nothing_. But she had seen it, she was sure. She had felt the air as the chandelier crashed onto the table, and the unmistakable sound of glass breaking and wood splintering. She broke her gaze from the table to stare back to her biceps, to make sure that what she experienced was real—staring hard at the crescent marks of where the entity had gripped her. She breathed a sigh of relief, almost scowling to herself that being maimed had made the hysteria wanting to crawl out of her skin, calm. It should not be soothing at all, but it was. This confirmed that what she had experienced was _real_ , and not her imagination. There was no way for her to grip onto her own biceps and mutilate herself, not when the curve of the nail marks faced inwards and were too apart. ' _The shape was even larger than my own'-_

She jumped, her thoughts interrupted when another distinct thump sounded above her. Her mouth twisted into an ugly sneer, her honey-brown eyes pinched with aggravation rather than fear when another thump came almost immediately after the previous one. She didn't want to go back upstairs, but felt compelled to see why it had stopped chasing her, and why it kept making that sound. Curiosity was something she could hardly resist. She always wanted to know—to see, to understand—and everything that was happening was something she could not fathom. But dare she go back into the belly of the beast after it had already attacked her once?

She debated the idea of going back, her lips pursing and her fingers twitching with the speed of each thought. If she went up, there was no guarantee that the entity would not attack her again, but if she left, she would still need to return to her home and face it. If she went up, would it be enough of an answer as to why it stopped? She wasn't certain it would. After all, it was rather intelligent—subtle and almost working to meet some sort of goal. Since, it could be smashing up the upstairs bedrooms, but it was not. It could be yelling, and hissing at her to come up, but it was not. It was simply making small noises to alert her that it was still there. She groaned in frustration, carding her fingers through her hair as if it would somehow yield her an answer.

But then, if she left, could she possibly risk her parents returning to an empty home, and possibly, leaving them at the mercy of this thing? No matter how short of a period that was? No. She would not. Not bloody likely. Hermione paced, feeling the cuts in her arms itch with her distress. And even if she told her parents, there was that small chance that they would not believe her. There was another thump above her, and that was all she needed to finally come to a decision. She was going—her safety be damned. She wouldn't let her parents get caught in this mess, not after what she experienced moments earlier. This was her own burden to bear.

She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin up defiantly as she turned to face the stairs at the corner of the dining room. She walked with purpose, the complete opposite of her frantic movements earlier. She ignored the kitchen on the way, but used the corners of her eyes to make sure that nothing would surprise her from that very open entryway. She'd had enough of the surprises for one night.

When her feet finally touched the dark wood of the first stair, the hairs at her nape began to prickle and raise with awareness. She knew what she had signed up for when she decided to go back, and it would not deter her. She had made her decision, and Hermione was not one to back down. Even if it was completely stupid to go back.

Her steps were loud, reverberating around the empty house and heightening the anticipation that started to twist and squirm in her belly. Her breath was leaving her in steady pants, but halfway up, she started to note how she could actually see it leaving her. The temperature, she was sure, was also dropping rapidly, and she was starting to shiver from just how frigid it became. She was no longer cocooned in her panic, or warmed by her rage when she finally reached the final step that led into a wide hallway. She was truly second guessing her decision to return, but she inhaled deeply, resigned.

She didn't remember it being this ominous when she first moved into the home, but she was definitely feeling the _wrongness_ in the air now. When had it become this way? This entity could not have possibly been here the entire time she and her family had been living here. If she remembered correctly, hauntings usually came about in two ways: it was either already there to begin with or someone brought a cursed item into the house. She wasn't sure she could even trust the source, she could not remember where exactly that piece of information came from, but really, it was all she had. Choosing to trust a potentially questionable source, she tried to wrap her head around the _possibilities._ Which of these two hauntings could they be? She pondered to herself as she stepped into the hall and stared longingly out the window at the end. If only she were outside rather than trapped in this bloody nightmare.

 _ **So you come.**_

She exhaled audibly through her nose, hands clenching into tight fists as the words seemed to manifest almost directly behind her. She didn't turn, choosing to stare hard into the window and calm her nerves. It took her longer than she liked to settle her breathing, but she did. She licked her lips, trying to think of how to best approach the situation. She knew she couldn't ignore it for long, it had assaulted her once already for not answering it once already.

"Why are you here?"

She wanted to smack at herself for how stupid that question sounded, but it could not be helped. She was already on edge, and really had no bloody idea on how to deal with ghosts. It's bad enough that it had chosen _her_ to haunt, and really, with how messed up things were already, it came as no surprise that that was the first thing out of her mouth. Honestly, if she were not adept at keeping her cool, even in absurd situations, she would have reverted to kicking and screaming her head off. But what good did that ever do for the characters in horror movies?

It laughed, the sound more like a hiss than true laughter. She wasn't sure what was so bloody funny, but she did not react outwardly to that. She kept her fingers clenched, and her stance rigid—otherwise she'd give away just how unsettled the whole situation made her. She had a feeling that it fed off her fear and unease, and refused to give it the satisfaction.

 _ **How courageous, yet foolish.**_

She squeaked in surprise when the whisper came too close to her left ear, forcing her to whirl around in panic. ' _Fuck_ ,' she groaned when she realized that she had reacted just as the entity wanted her to. She was angry at herself, but directed it at the monster instead—because really, there was no point in being mad at herself. She definitely did not appreciate it mocking her— it has taken over her bloody home! Wasn't that enough?

"Get out!" She snarled, her patience completely lost when the hissing laugh continued. She was like a cornered animal, but she would not let it know she was scared. Even if deep down, it probably knew that she was. "Get out of my house!" The same hissing laughter met her ears again, and in her frustration, she started throwing the doors open down the hall—her room, her parents room, the study—it didn't matter. She wanted to actually do _something_ , no matter how mental it looked.

It was absurd. Ridiculous. Down-right mad. But Hermione was desperate, already feeling like she had no control of a place she was supposed to feel safe in—at home in, damn it.

 _ **Are you quite done?**_ It seemed to mock, the tone too amused to sit well with Hermione.

She wanted to flip it the bird, to snarl and show her teeth like a lion would when threatened. With how her hair fanned out, she very well resembled a lion ready to fight tooth and nail for her territory. The problem really was, that she could not see it—let alone _touch it._

"I don't bloody care that you're a ghost. Get out of my house!" With that last cry of indignation, she felt the rage dissipate like smoke. She felt empty, and exhausted all at once like someone had taken her and wrung her out of every emotion she felt. Like how her mother would wring a rag until every droplet of moisture was expelled.

 _ **Your anger tastes delicious, Hermione.**_

She shivered, feeling colder than ever before. She was unsure, alarmingly confused as to what had just happened. How could she lose her composure like that? The hysteria she had managed to topper off earlier was threatening to bubble out, and she breathed in deeply through her mouth to calm the panic. Was it feeding off of her somehow? This was all impossible, it should not be real—but it was. She needed to leave. Now.

 _ **Give me your fear, your hate, your desssspair.**_

The voice was relentless now, and Hermione pressed her hands to her ears to ignore it. She turned back to try to go back downstairs, to escape as she should have done earlier. But it was as if there was a physical wall between her and the stairs—no matter how much she pushed and tried to get through, it would not allow it.

 _ **Give me your thoughtssss, your dreamssss, your memoriessss.**_

There had to be something to make it stop. To make it all stop. What if there was a cursed object? She knew that there was nothing odd or haunting about this home when they first moved in—they had lived there too long for it to be showing itself so recently. Did her parents bring something new into the house? Could she herself have possibly brought something into the house? She wasn't sure, but in her desperation to _do_ something, she launched herself into her parent's bedroom in search of anything that seemed out of place. Anything at all that could feel like it was sucking the life out of her.

Her body was sluggish, almost as if she were drunk as she tore through their drawers looking for anything she was not familiar with—she found books, disks, clothes, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. She finished destroying the drawers before tearing the closet open, yanking boxes out from the above shelves with purpose. Their closet was not very large, or deep, but they had a corner where they tended to shove their suitcases or larger items, and she felt the clothes swallow her as she opened each suitcase, bag, and purse for anything that did not _feel_ even remotely right.

 _ **Give me your knowledge, your hunger, your determination.**_

It kept whispering and coaxing for her with its sibilant voice, and she stumbled out of the closet before the door to her parent's room closed shut. She screamed in panic, feeling the force shove her back onto the bed and pin her down. She was struggling with all her might, snarls and rage twisting her features as she punched and kicked for it to let her go.

 _ **Yessss.**_

And almost as if she had a bucket of cold water dumped onto her, the panic and the rage disappeared.

She was trembling, but she could not will back the feelings of terror or rage that had consumed her when she had struggled with the force. It was no longer pinning her down, or touching her at all, but she could not find the will to move. What had she been looking for so desperately earlier? Her vision was getting fuzzier, her memories blurring at the edges— _her mother laughing as she tried to untangle two-year old Hermione's hair, or her father's twinkling gaze when he spotted her gushing to her mother about the newest book she had bought_ —it was all fading like smoke, and she could not find the energy to understand why she was not panicking.

She rose from the bed uncertainly, her mind in turmoil and her stomach twisted in knots, as she brought her hand to the door, and felt it open easily at her prodding. She peaked her head out, unsure of why she had been panicking so much earlier when she abruptly felt something gnaw and snarl in the back of her mind. The nagging thought would not fade. She felt lost, like she needed to do something but could not remember what. She turned to face her parent's messed up room, and she realized then that she had been looking for something. The room was in disarray, the closet almost in shambles—nothing like the order that it was in earlier—and that doubt started to nag at her again.

She needed to find something, but what was it?

 _ **Your panic and your fear were so ssssweet.**_

The hairs on her arms stood on end, nausea building in her throat as she breathed harshly to stop herself from upchucking onto the wooden floor.

 _ **Your memoriessss and your knowledge, sssso mine.**_

Was that why she could not remember? What was it that she could not remember? What did she need to find? She dashed through the hall and into the small study her, or her father, would occupy in the early evenings. She and he had decided that instead of having her keep all her books in her bedroom, that they would use this empty room as a study and small library. It was the only place she felt the safest, the only place she felt could calm the torrent of her thoughts when she was frustrated with school work, or with her friends Ronald and Harry. The door opened easily under her coaxing and when she stepped inside, she was floored by the familiar smell of old parchment and ink. It brought a small smile to her face before her brow furrowed in confusion once more. Was what she was looking for in here?

She eyed the desk directly at the end of the room, surrounded by bookshelves at either end of the desk. There was an open journal at the top of the desk, and she was compelled to reach for it. Could it be that? She didn't recall ever seeing that before. She stepped into the room and felt the door shut immediately before she heard the familiar click of the lock settling into place. She didn't pay it any mind, not when the book kept beckoning for her to approach it. She felt the itch at the back of her mind again, nagging and almost begging her to _remember_ , but remember what? She paused once she was at the end of the desk, eyeing the open journal with curiosity. Was it her father's? ' _Surely, it couldn't be mine, even if my memories as of late have been a little foggy…'_

She tried to familiarize herself with the yellowed parchment of the journal, eyeing its empty pages before reaching over the desk and grabbing onto it. It felt warm in her hand, the leather soft and worn with age as she balanced it on both her palms. She closed the book to stare at the cover, and it was devoid of any identifiers. It was a simple worn, black journal. Nothing special about it. She opened to the first page, and her brow furrowed in confusion when no words met her gaze. If it was her father's, it would not be empty. He had the tendency to eat through his journals with the written word. She closed the book again, and turned it to look at the spine of the book and inhaled a sharp breath.

 **T.M. RIDDLE.**

Who was this? She pondered. Was this what she was looking for when she had savaged her parent's bedroom? She felt a headache coming on, her confusion and unease making it difficult for her to understand just what she needed to do. She remembered the entity. She remembered being afraid, and also, being incredibly angry. She remembered desperation, and needing to find something. But that was where her thoughts lost their alignment. Her memories were coming and going—her parents losing their familiarity as she tried to delve deep into her psyche for some sort of answer. Her thoughts were muddled, and her body felt as if it were hit by a truck—limbs weak and vision dark around the edges when she tried to move too quickly.

The book seemed to be pulsating like a heart would, and Hermione could not for the life of her understand how any ordinary book could do something like that. Was this in some way connected to the entity? She remembered—she remembered that ghosts either were already living in the house or were brought in, could this be the connection?

 _ **Clever girl.**_

She whirled around when she felt cold air wash over the back of her neck, despite the heavy brown curls at her shoulders. Yes, this book had to be it. Even if she couldn't recall why, she needed to do something about this book. She opened the book once more, and tore the first few pages in one go. She didn't stop with those—she started to yank, and pull at as many as she could; paying no mind to defacing this special book because it was somehow connected to this ghost.

She saw paper flutter all around the room, but as she continued to tear, she noted with a creeping sense of nausea how the book looked untouched—the yellowed parchment pristine as if she had not just moments ago started hacking at it. Frustrated, she walked around the desk to open a drawer and rummage for the lighter that her father always kept to light his pipe. She found it, and quickly, before the entity could discover what she was going to do—lit it and pressed the flame to the leather journal.

She watched with satisfaction as the small flame turned into a larger flame that began to eat away at the book. She flung it out of her hands and onto the wooden floor so as not to burn herself, and kept a careful eye on the offending thing. Maybe, with this destruction, she would stop feeling so drained and so unsure of herself?

A soft chuckle met her ears this time, and she felt her eyes widen when the space between her and the window behind her was filled with warmth and something solid. The book kept burning, drowning the heavenly scent of parchment and ink with the pungent smell of burning. She whirled around to face the very _solid_ and _warm_ presence behind her, but was stopped short by strong hands on her biceps. The fingers fit like a glove on the crescents that she confusedly saw on her arms, and she gaped when the body crowded her into the desk—forcing her hard onto it and stilling all movement.

She squirmed beneath him—now very sure that her resident ghost was a "he"—as she tried to free herself. Her arms were pinned hard onto the unforgiving wood, his body pressed hard enough so that she could not buck him off like an enraged bull. She twisted and writhed, and with it, she felt a dizzy spell form around her. Her limbs started to feel like lead, and she found, that if the body behind her was not pinning her onto the desk, she would have fallen onto the floor in weakness. She didn't understand why she felt so weak, so confused, so-

" _ **Give me everything, sweet Hermione**_ _,"_ and she felt her body slacken further, unable to fight the darkness in her vision as it swallowed her completely. She was losing consciousness and she felt so very afraid. But why is she so afraid? What was wrong with this entire situation? Her thoughts were in knots, jumbled, and difficult to discern as she tried to cling desperately to any type of coherence. She wasn't insensible, mad, or daft—she was Hermione Granger.

But who was she?

" _ **Sleep**_ _."_

And she did.

Her head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton—the edges fuzzy and difficult to make out as her head swam with the darkness that engulfed her. Her skull ached, but it was a muted pain, unlike the normal headaches she would have when she forced herself to stay awake after two all-nighters. This pain was unlike anything she had ever experienced, and she didn't know what to make of it as she opened her eyes to see nothing but darkness.

Was it night already? She couldn't see anything in front of her, she couldn't see anything beside her—she could barely feel the softness of the bed beneath her. She strained to make out at least some shapes in the dark, but everything looked like one giant blob of black. When she tried to raise her hand to rid herself of the bleariness of her vision, she found that she couldn't move them. She couldn't move her arms, or legs—it felt like she was a statue forced into a permanent stasis, but she could still feel her chest rise and fall. So perhaps, she was not a statue, but how was it that she could not move even a finger? And why was her head the only thing she could move at all? Things were rather confusing.

She strained against the motionlessness, and felt rather than heard the sound of a door opening before closing silently. She wasn't sure how she could tell when her bedroom door was opened, but it was like a shift in the air—a niggling that would not stop until she huffed and moved to close the door that her parents had forgotten to shut.

And when the thought of her parents came to mind, like an explosion, different feelings, sensations, and memories flooded through her. The dam had been broken, and now she was unable to stifle the pained sounds as they came back to her—inch by painful inch. She remembered the fear and the panic when she had ran out of her room from the unseen entity. She remembered her desperation to find the cursed item. And then, she remembered how easily her feelings, memories, and knowledge were drained away like water in a tub when the entity had trapped her. She would have shivered if she were not numb or frozen where she lay. It had taken things from her, and when she thought it could not be worse—she had somehow made things shoddier when she tried to destroy the blasted thing in her confused state.

She strained against the motionlessness again, staring into the darkness for a sign of the presence that manifested when she had burned the book. She needed to know what she had done. She needed to face the consequences of her mistake, and fix it before she could do that, she needed to bloody move.

"You're awake," a voice states, making her squeak loudly in surprise as she turns to look to where she believes the sound to have come from. Her head still feels like it's been broken open, but she does not let this impede her from glowering at the darkness. Her mind was no longer in pieces, even if her head felt like it was. It was almost like a hangover, except she didn't have a lick of alcohol.

"What have you done?" her throat felt parched, her voice unrecognizable to her. She couldn't hear the man, but the presence was unmistakable. He felt as oppressive as the darkness in the room—terrifying, lethal, and so difficult to ignore. He was the abyss—a part of the darkness rather than just someone that conveniently played in the dark.

"Oh? Don't you remember?" She was nervous at the amusement in the voice, straining against the immobility to take back some semblance of control. Anything to fight off this choking sense of helplessness and vulnerability. "You found me-," he sounded closer this time, his voice still amused, but seeming to take on a sharper edge that had Hermione's skin prickling with unease. "Sssso desperate, sssso panicked—you kept looking for me in your quaint little home," it was as if there was fire flooding through her veins now, the oppressive stillness dissipating as he continued, the voice closer and turning more sinister. She could feel her heart beating rapidly, and with it, she could feel her body begin to tremble—finally able to move in the darkness. "But you had no idea what it was that you were looking for, did you, _Hermione_?" The voice was above her now, and Hermione sprung from the softness beneath her, her hands out and searching for a weapon to fight against the unknown figure.

The room felt foreign, but she could swear that she was still somehow home. She could not have gone anywhere else, the smells and the fabric of that softness she had laid in had to belong to her room. "I didn't know, I was trying to get rid of you!" she shouted as she hit something solid in the darkness, both afraid and determined. Was it a wall? Was it the figure? It was firm, the texture smooth with tiny flat bumps on the surface—yes, it definitely was a wall. She pressed herself against it, reaching out with her left hand on the surface before starting to move. She had to reach a door, or hit something at some point—it could not just be emptiness. She had felt a door earlier when waking up, surely there was a way out? She had lived in this house for years, how was it that everything had become so unrecognizable now?

"Get rid of me after you strived so hard to free me? My, you're quite fickle. You had no idea what you were doing when you found my journal in that disgusting public library." The voice was syrupy sweet to her ears, but there was no softness or kindness to be found. _His journal? Then Riddle must be his name._ "I remember that look of excitement on your face when you found me. So innocent, so _naïve_ -"

"No!" She snarled as she kept feeling the walls for an exit or furniture, to somehow have an upper hand in this darkness. "You tricked me!" When her hand bumped onto something different, Hermione felt victory warm her—her fingers touching the familiar hardness of her large dresser. She felt over the surface of it, but felt her victory dampen when none of her brushes, perfume bottles, or miniature manicure sets were present. It was as if everything was swept away of anything remotely hers—as if this room that housed so many memories was more foreign land than _home_.

"You searched for me in that dusty prison, and unearthed me from that abyss of tomes. You could have left me there—left my diary there—but you did not, _you decided to take me home,_ " the voice started to laugh, and Hermione whirled around when she felt a sudden presence behind her. _Never_ in front of her. She could make nothing out, but she knew he was there. She could feel the warmth of another body, could sense the amusement, and the oppressive weight of his eyes in the dark.

She didn't flinch away from it, staring hard in search of his eyes—of something human in the sea of black. "This can't be real," she whispered aloud, but she could not deny that it _had_ to be. She did not remember anything that he was telling her. She couldn't possibly have led him in here to terrorize her when her parents had left? She could not have been that bloody stupid.

"But it is, dearest Hermione, you took me inside and gave me everything you had and more," and with this, two bright orbs flickered into existence in the black. She was startled at the intensity of the red, so very much like blood, staring into her own disbelieving ones. "You gave me your hopessss-"it hissed at her, almost like a caress as she trembled in shock. The warmth that had been mere inches away now seeming to engulf her, hands that felt too solid were gripping at her arms, and a very solid body was pushing her against the dresser she had desperately been searching for mere moments earlier. "You gave me your fearssss-" she was shaking against the torrent of heat, feeling incredibly small and weak despite how she snarled and struggled beneath her captor. She kicked at his legs and shoved her knees, in desperation.

"Though, I took your memories first," she was exhausted, now begrudgingly listening despite wanting to ignore the voice. "I couldn't have you figuring it out, not when I was so clossse." She didn't want to stop fighting, but her body refused to cooperate. It was still weak from when she had passed out earlier, and the fact that she was forced into the proverbial corner did not help matters. She hated this feeling. She had never felt this helpless before in her life.

"What? Were you scared that I would actually _beat_ you if you hadn't taken them away?" Well, if she couldn't physically overpower him, then she would fight him with her words. She refused to be a damsel in distress, even if she actually was. She couldn't take just how bloody awful this whole thing was. She felt the pressure on her arms tighten, causing her to release a short breath of pain. Looks like she hit a nerve. "Big bad ghost had to deceive an adolescent girl so he could get a leg up, what does that say about you, Riddle? Pathetic," She forced a laugh, feeling a smug sense of satisfaction when the grip somehow grew harsher. Her words had bothered him. Good.

"Are you finished?" She paused, brow furrowing as the hands lost some of their ferocity. The voice was cold, devoid of any anger or frustration, which only made her nervous. "It matters not how I did it. What matters is that I _won_ , and you have _lost._ " There was no hint of anger, and Hermione felt the cogs in her brain try to find some sort of ammunition to hurl at him. Something to hurt, but before she could open her mouth, she felt a warm breath fan at the hollow of her throat.

She swallowed audibly, finding no words to say when the warm air puffed on her neck, then fanned across her cheek, before stopping at the hollow of her ear. Her words were caught in her throat and her stomach tied into a mess of knots as she tried to flinch away from the breath in vain. "You've given me everything," Riddle purred into her ear. She could feel the moist air of his breath, and it felt so human. Too real. Much too real.

She wasn't sure when she started struggling again, but this time, it was not in rage, or in simple distress. This time it was not simply to escape and take a hold of the freedom denied from her—no, this time it was in dawning realization and utter desperation. It was almost funny to her, how she had felt this similar panic and desperation when she was trying to destroy his journal. Bloody brilliant. "I would be no gentleman if I did not return the favor, _Hermione._ After all, I am not done with you yet," and she screamed loud, her throat aching with the force when she felt pain flood her from wherever he touched her. His fingers, his chest, his legs, anything that had direct contact burned like the flatiron you'd negligently left on before grabbing onto the hot metal. It was blistering hot, like the steam from a boiled cup of tea in the morning.

It was pure agony, and Hermione could do nothing but claw and scream herself hoarse. She could not hear the false words of comfort being whispered into her ear, she couldn't focus on the mock sincerity dripping down his poison lips—all she could focus on was the pain. It felt like eternity, like if she were suddenly tossed from heaven and into the lap of Satan himself as he boiled her in his inferno. "Stop" she begged and cried for the pain to stop after what felt like forever. Could it be forever? She wasn't sure as her body convulsed. "P-please stop," she was sobbing, tears finally running down her cold cheeks in desperation. She wanted it to stop. Her pride be damned, there was nothing as awful as this.

" _Let go,"_ she didn't sound like herself at all.

"Hush," he whispered to her when her voice stopped working. Her mouth was gaped open into a silent scream, but nothing came out. Not a whimper. Not a cry. She was silent as she writhed, hoping that he would just get the hell away. "It's almost over, dearest. There is no greater gift than the one I am giving you," his words were soft, but Hermione could sense the cruelty hidden in the sweet façade. Riddle's words were no comfort at all, but she felt her body begin to relax when the pain began to slink away.

The pain was leaving, but to what end? What could he have done? She was trying to wrap her head around his words—to truly understand what it all meant. What more could he possibly want? He's real—truly a being on Earth, why did he not just leave with this unfortunate success?

Her eyes fluttered open, unsure of when they had shut. It was bright, and she winced before shutting them quickly again. When had it gotten so bright? She wondered to herself, feeling too weak to move at all but wanting desperately for this monster to stop _touching_ her. Just thinking about the torture from earlier was enough to want to fling herself from his touch—but she could not. She was frozen in place, her face the only thing she felt she could actually move. Exactly like the motionlessness she had felt earlier when she had first woken up.

She opened her eyes again, prepared this time for the brightness and almost flinched at how familiar the room looked. She could see the top of her bookcase, and the different picture frames of her and her friends at different periods of their lives. She could even see the signed poster from one of her favorite authors tacked against the wall. It was like she had never been wrapped in darkness at all—like the fear, the pain, and the chase was a foreign memory. Except, the nightmare was real. She was still pinned against her dresser, his arms wrapped around her like pythons ready to consume their prey. She was prey—no doubt about that.

"W-what have you done to me?" she croaked out, her voice sounding brittle and frail after having screamed for what felt like hours. Could it have been hours? How long has it been since it all went to shit? "What more could you have possibly needed from me? You've already gained a corporal body! Why can't you just leave me the hell alone, there's no way I-." She paused in mid rant when the arms started to move, the hands loosening their grip on her biceps before lowering to wrap around her slim waist. "What do you think you're doing? Unhand me!" She screeched, her throat protesting at the abuse but Hermione could not find it in herself to care when the bane of her fucking existence was taking liberties with her body. She lifted her leg and kicked hard between his legs, only to meet the hard flesh of his thigh. She screamed in rage, when he quickly forced that same leg between her own to prevent any further violence.

Even with her legs flailing uselessly beneath her, Hermione did not relent in her struggles. With her conveniently freed hands, she started to scratch at his arms, beat at his chest—even trying to hit his face. As obscured as it was. She didn't understand how she could not actually _see_ him at all—it was like a human body was completely shrouded in black. He was a blur, and she could not _fucking_ understand how he could do something like that. A dark chuckle interrupted her mental tirade, her arms pausing from the frantic struggling to focus her eyes on the black shroud in front of her.

She remembered his eyes, and how red they had been when she was trapped in darkness. They had glittered like rubies, almost like those of an animal's in the night. They were unnatural, inhuman, and so very difficult to ignore. But where were they now? It was like the light had been switched off temporarily. "I had almost forgotten how much of a spitfire you were, Hermione," she bristled at the mocking words, and started to fight once more. " _Shut up_ ," she hissed, and Riddle started to laugh once more in amusement. It was nothing like the choking hiss it was when he wasn't even a person, and she shivered involuntary at the velvet baritone of it. It would have been an attractive sound had it not been for the particular situation.

"Tsk tsk, is that any way to speak to your old _friend_? I am hurt that you could forget me so easily." What the bloody fuck was he talking about? Her confusion must have been obvious in her eyes because the man paused from laughing at her expense. "I have to admit, I hardly recognized you. I almost killed you trying to come back, but no matter. I did manage to bring you back after your very generous contribution," his voice seemed to trail off, almost as if he were lost in thought. She was flabbergasted, her mouth hanging open in a way that her mother would immediately scold her for. Was he mad!?

"I-I don't understand," she stated, momentarily pausing from her struggles to try to make sense of _this_ confusing mess. "You're a ghost, one that you tricked me into bringing with me…" she pauses momentarily in the event that he had something more to share, and when she was sure he was not, in fact, going to respond, she found the presence of mind to continue. "And then, you spend an ungodly amount of time absorbing my energy to start taking away my memories of our interactions in the event that I start growing too suspicious…"she stops again, waiting for any sort of denial at what she had thus far concluded, and again, finding that he had nothing more to say, continued. "And after you've finally absorbed enough of my life into yourself, you find it in your black heart to make your presence known, and of course, take what little I have left along with more of my memories to finish that little bloody ceremony you had set up in the study," she stops again, taking the lapsed silence as her cue to continue on her tirade. "And just when you finally finish, and I am as close to the edge of death as one can get in this situation, you bring me _back_ because you and my ancestor were friends? Am I getting this right?" She had lost the calm tone she had started with, adopting a sarcastic, and even exasperated sound. "Are you bloody mad!?"

He had started to laugh again, in earnest, while Hermione tried to wrap her head around the fucking ludicrousness of everything. Did he suffer from mood swings? Had she really angered the Gods enough to allow her to find that stupid journal and bring a mad ghost into her home? Had she really _survived_ because of something that irrelevant! Hermione was beyond irked now.

"Oh, but would you not agree that the most mad are also considered to be the most brilliant? Though I do have to disagree with you in some respects, Hermione darling," her breath hitched when the darkness enshrouded the man lifted, revealing a decadent creature that had no business being in the room with her at all. If she would not have almost died earlier as it stands—because honestly, there's nothing like nearing death to put a damper on one's attraction— she would have mistakenly thought she had brought an angel into her home. Perhaps, this is what Lucifer had looked like before he had fallen?

His skin was pale, with a hint of rosiness on his cheeks that was reminiscent of cherubs from famous Renaissance art. It looked soft to the touch, and unblemished, fitting together well with his strong jawline and his high, and incredibly sharp, cheekbones. Everything on his face seemed to work in harmony—his straight nose, his plump and pink lips, and the almond shape of his eyes. His features were made to seduce even the most resistant to his ploys. But perhaps the most jarring of the entire image were his eyes, and she was both relieved and frightened at the cruelty hidden behind those red orbs.

It was unnatural, and so very unsettling.

"You see-," she started when he spoke, her eyes flashing to his knowing ones in both embarrassment and outrage. "I would not have bothered to bring you back if we were only just _friends_ ," her brows knitted together in bemusement before her face suddenly paled in realization. It was not possible, she thought desperately. Her body felt like lead as one of his arms released her waist to bring it up to caress the nape of her neck. It _could not_ be possible. "You and I shared something incredibly _special_ , you could say, centuries in the past-"his words sounded incredibly far away, almost as if she were trying to listen through mountains of static.

"You're lying," she finally found the will to say, grabbing onto the wrist caressing her neck tightly. "I'm done with this nonsense. There is only so much of this I can take, and clearly, we are _beyond_ that point already." She jerked the hand away from her neck, surprised that he'd allow her to and used the other to push him away. However, when he refused to release his grip on her waist, and completely disconnect from her body, she realized that his allowance only went so far. ' _I'm so done with him sticking on to me like a bloody parasite,_ 'she fumed as her already pinched expression soured further.

His expression was odd. His lips were quirked at the corner in amusement, but his eyes did not seem to reflect that moment of humor at all. They were _empty_ , almost as if all life that resided in there was completely gone. She wasn't sure what she found most unsettling about the entire thing: the fact that he was telling her that he had had a _relationship_ with her doppelganger from the past or that his face could be so blank while trying to pretend to feel anything at all. Could he feel anything? Was this some sort of charade to later strike her when her guard was lowered? "You're not understanding me, _darling_ ," she didn't know how he managed to make something endearing sound so threatening, but she was definitely wary now.

It was all the warning she received before the hand she had shoved away from her neck earlier grasped hard onto both her wrists, twisting them harshly before pinning them atop the dresser she was pinned against. She kicked out, feeling satisfaction when the hit had made him loosen his grip enough for her to free herself from his hold. She pushed his chest in that moment of distraction, and turned to run out of the room. This was the only chance she had to escape, and there was no way she was not getting out.

She jumped over the heaps of books on the floor, running to the opposite side of the room for the door. He was up quickly, hearing his feet hit the floor as she grabbed at the door and slammed it open in desperation. She was out of the room before he caught up to her, and she bolted immediately for the stairs without any thought. If she could reach the kitchen, she could quickly grab a knife in the event he cornered her and escape through the back door. It was a long shot, but she first needed to make it there.

She ducked down the staircase, looking back to see how far was from her, to only pale and push at her legs harder when he appeared almost a _hair's_ inch too close. She hissed when his fingers caught some of her hair, but refused to stop, feeling them tear out of her scalp. She was sure she was going to have a bald spot there, but that was the least of her worries. She twisted and ran right to the open doorway of her kitchen. She immediately eyed it for anything sharp that could have been left in the open, and smirked when she saw the steak knife she had used earlier sitting in the sink. She rushed to it, mindful of the figure not too far behind, before scooping it and rushing to the left for the back door.

She screamed then when she felt him slam into her from behind, pinning her into the door she was desperately trying to reach. She held tightly onto the knife, and turned immediately to stab him in the abdomen. He must have somehow seen this coming, because he grabbed onto the wrist of the arm trying to stab him and slammed it hard against the wall. She hissed in pain, and used her other hand to try to pry his fingers from her wrist—feeling the bones grind in agony. It had to be broken. "Fuck you," she hissed as she stopped trying to free her wrists and immediately started to kick and claw out at him. Riddle stepped into her range, but did not seem at all fazed by her struggling. He crowded her into the wall, his chest on hers while he forced his knee between her legs so that she would not be able to pull the stunt she had pulled earlier in her bedroom.

She tried to buck him off like a wild animal, and it wasn't until his grip on her broken wrist tightened that she stopped her struggling. She cried out in pain, her knees buckling beneath her as she tried to remain upright. It was not the same burning agony from when he revived her, but it still fucking hurt. "As amusing as this is, I do not like being interrupted," she couldn't help but snort at that, before baring her teeth like an angry lioness.

"I don't give a fuck what you don't like, and I care even less about whatever it was that my doppelganger or you had. Is it not enough that you tried to kill me, do you really think that I-I would continue wherever it was that you and her left off!?" She cried out again when he squeezed her wrist in retaliation, and Hermione noted the loud clatter of the knife tumbling to the ground. She wasn't sure how she hadn't dropped it earlier, but all the same, it was as useless as her wrist was now.

His eyes were blazing with repressed rage, his face contorted into something more animal than human. It suited him best, in fact, Hermione thought scathingly. There was no hiding behind beauty when he looked more like a demon than the angel he pretended to be. "Oh, if you had only let me finish, then you would understand perfectly what it was that I meant at all," his voice was cold, and Hermione felt herself flinch away from the saccharine smile that pasted itself onto his lips. His eyes were screaming for her pain and suffering, in contrast to the innocent smile he wore. ' _Shit_.'

"Our relationship was not out of _love-_ " he spat the word as if it were the most disgusting thing to ever come across his lips. "You and I were enemies on two different sides of a war. You were the tactician, the brain, the _cause_ of the very curse that now so ironically has ensnared you. It would have been easy to kill you, but what is the fun in letting you pass away quietly?-" He was not sincerely asking for an answer, and Hermione wriggled beneath him in barely hidden fear when his eyes took on a calculating look. "You cursed me to live eternally in that book after I mistakenly underestimated your intelligence," his eyes narrowed at that, seeming pained to even acknowledge that he had been bested. "Before I realized who you were, I had planned to let you die quietly. A merciful death for one that had sacrificed so much for my return," she could not look away from his bright red eyes, shaking and listening intently to the tale. Could this all be true? Did it even matter if it wasn't? "But in that darkness, when you mocked me and had the audacity to laugh while spitting out my surname as if it were the filthiest thing to touch your lips—I realized just who it was that had found me so many centuries into the future. I learned that you, having lived a life without war to taint you, had turned soft and unsuspecting of the nature of this world. It has made you _prey_ ," he purred before leaning his face much too close to her neck.

She squirmed beneath him, noticing the compromising position she was in as the true nature of their relationship dawned on her. It was almost like a twisted tale of two souls meeting together, but instead of it being out of love, it was out of hatred. "Fate truly favors me, for not only have I been given life once more, but I have also been given the life of the very woman that had cursed me to begin with. The incarnation of a woman that has given _everything_ to revive me—well, almost everything," his eyes were smoldering with delight and Hermione felt frozen underneath the look. It was a twisted look of depraved hunger and victory. She needed to get away. The air had somehow shifted around them, and Hermione wanted no part in this.

"I-I'm not her, I have done nothing to you! Absolutely nothing to warrant this. Why didn't you just kill me? If you truly hate me as you say you do, why did you bother at all to drag me out of death's door? I cannot possibly give you the satisfaction the original truly can," She was trying to distract him at this point—she already had an inkling to the reason, but she would rather Riddle waste more time gloating than act on the thoughts he was thinking behind that manic look in his eyes. He paused at that, his head tilting to one side as he appraised her; losing the manic look he wore earlier to observe her. She wasn't sure if she preferred the blank mask or the true image of his demonic nature.

"You make a compelling argument, but unfortunately for you, and so very fortunately for me, you are the nearest thing to what it is that I desire. You are the next incarnation, and you so very remind me of her," his eyes took on another calculating look, and Hermione gasped when he grasped both her wrists in one of his hands, and pinned them hard at the top of her head. She squirmed, ignoring the sharp pain that shot down her arm when his grip on both wrists tightened. She tried to kick out, but the knee digging painfully between her legs prevented her from hitting her mark once more. It didn't matter that the doorknob was digging hard into her back, the pain was the only thing keeping her grounded from the panic that started to squirm in her belly. "It would be no fun to end things prematurely with your death, so why don't we try and get to know one another, _Hermione_ ," and Hermione could not hold back the scream that tore from her lips when he pressed himself closer to her, and sniffed at her neck as a predator would. As a _monster_ would.

She couldn't find the words to describe the horror that seized her limbs when warm lips pressed to her pulse point, and suddenly kissed it. She felt numb with fear, unable to stifle the trembling of her limbs when a moist tongue started to lap up her neck. She tried to think of a way out—of any means of escape when the moist tongue turned to teeth, feeling the sting of his nips on the tender flesh. She was going to have a bruise, but if she didn't think of something, that bruise would be the _least_ of her worries. She pushed her head back against the door when the mouth began to creep up to her jaw. She could withstand this—if he dropped his guard, she could smash her head into his and seize that moment to escape. She writhed when he bit hard onto the skin of her jaw, and when he lifted his head to lean towards her lips—she acted. She smashed her head into his, biting her tongue to fight the pain. He hissed, his hand releasing her wrists to cradle his nose as she ducked away from him and headed to front door. She didn't bother to pick up the knife—she wasn't going to waste any more precious time.

"Leave, and I will kill your parents when they return from their lovely trip," and it was like time itself had stopped. Her limbs froze, her eyes widening with a newfound panic.

"Y-you wouldn't," she whispered, heart beating much too fast in her chest.

"But I would, sweet _Hermione_. If you leave this house, and they return—and they most definitely _will_ —I will make sure that their final moments will comprise of the most excruciating agony you can inflict on the human body. I will take my time to savor their screams, to look deep into their eyes and capture each beautiful moment of their pitiful struggles for life. I will break them, Hermione. Break them so thoroughly that their minds will only think about making the suffering end. They will beg me to end it, and if their pleas for death please me, I may even _oblige_ them-"he purred, the words sounded more like a caress than the threat that it was. "Would you like that? To be the sole cause of the suffering of your loving family?" She felt nausea creep up her throat, making her stomach churn uncomfortably in both disgust and terror.

He had so easily clipped her wings, like a butterfly pinned by its wings to a dissecting tray. She definitely could not leave—even if she were to warn her parents, her pleas would be met on deaf ears. They would not believe her, or worse, they would and return to try to fix the mess. Heck, they may even call the police, but fat good that will do. This situation was _far_ from ordinary, even if this man— _no, creature_ —pretended to be human. Riddle was far from it, even if he was alive. They may even think her mad, and there was nothing worse than being thought as inept or unable to distinguish between fantasy and reality, when the danger was clearly present.

"You're a monster," she hissed without turning to face him, her shoulders trembling with fear and rage—it was hard to distinguish which when the fear and anger seemed to converge so easily. "No wonder you were cursed to live eternally in your own diary. The world is a lot better off without you in it," she turned to face him then, chin pointed up and shoulders back to belie a confidence she did not have. Her pride had been her downfall in the beginning, and from what little she knew of him already, she could assume that avarice was where he met his end as well. It was ironic, Hermione thought before gazing into his eyes without flinching. He looked completely unaffected—the nose he had cradled earlier not even sporting a bruise. But Hermione barely registered the small detail.

Her stomach wanted to heave what it had had for breakfast—whenever it was that she did— but she swallowed hard to abate it. His eyes were glowing in the shadows of the sitting room, not fitting in with the normally bright and light place where she had too many happy memories with her parents. He had defiled too many of her own memories in the house, and she doubted she could ever look at the place again without remembering the nightmare she had lived here. If she even got out of this alive. His face was blank, his head tilted to the side again in thought as he surveyed her strong front. It felt like an eternity before he spoke, but when he did, the blank mask he wore did not crack an inch. "You're so very like her," her finally stated.

He moved towards her then, his lean and tall body gliding like a snakes.

She knew she was cornered, and at his mercy—however little it was. Her parents were in danger, and she was the only thing that stood between them and him. She had been the cause of this entire mess, and it would only be right if she paid for it. Guilt burned like acid in her heart for having made such a naïve error, but there was no point wallowing in it now. She had made her bed, and now she would lay in it. "Courageous, bull-headed, and so very protective of the ones you care for," he stopped inches from her, his voice taking on an almost thoughtful quality as he surveyed her. She didn't break eye contact for a moment, squeezing her hands into tight fists when she noticed one of his hands rise to smooth across her left cheek. "It is rather disappointing that I could not lure you to my side of the war—that I could not gain your loyalty before you chose your side," the hand at her cheek slid to sink into her bushy curls, his fingers coaxing through the sea of brown until he had a firm hold of her head.

"I could have given you the world, but you spurned it for _love_ ," he hissed before the arm not in her hair slid around her waist and brought her body flush against his. "You could have been at my side, leading us to glory—but you could not abandon your morals, your beliefs, and your moron of a lover," his eyes were burning into her own, stealing all thought as the hand in her hair pushed her closer until his lips hovered over her ear. "You could have been _mine_ , but you had instead chosen death," she was trembling with the weight of his words, feeling a strange emotion swell in her chest. "I should have let you die when I realized who you were—I should have made you suffer a painful death for trapping me in my own diary," his words burned in her mind, and Hermione, no longer feeling it wise to remain still, pressed her hands to his chest. She ignored the throbbing of her wrist in favor of trying to create space between herself and this demon. "But I cannot—you have bewitched me again, and you are not even _her_ ," he hissed in anger before turning his face to stare into her own fearful ones. His eyes held an odd expression, and with a snarl, he pressed his lips to hers like a madman.

He bit at her lips, causing her to gasp in both pain and surprise. He seized that moment to push his tongue into her mouth, to explore every crevice that he could find. She made to bite down, but the sudden sharp tug of warning she received from the hand holding onto her head stopped her. She refused to kiss back, despite the skill in which his lips mapped hers, and the warmth that seemed to creep up her cheeks. She couldn't breathe from the intensity—his tongue teasing the roof of her mouth, his lips holding her lips prisoner in a manner that had dark spots creeping into her vision. And then, when she could not find the air to breathe, was when she did begin to fight in earnest. She pushed at his chest, fearful of the lightheadedness that overtook her when he refused to pull away—his mouth consuming hers like a starving finding a meal in her. She scratched at his chest, hearing a sharp intake of breath leave his nose at the action. He was going to make her pass out, and she kicked out only to hit the leg he had expertly pushed between her legs when she was distracted. He grinded it mercilessly into her public bone, and she cried out into the kiss from the pain.

She didn't know when he finally released her from the burning kiss, but there was no moment to truly think through the situation before his hands rabidly tore open her button down top. She yelped in surprise when he suddenly shoved her onto the carpeted floor, taking little time to pin her to the ground with his body. His right knee pushed between her legs, while one of his hands quickly rounded both of her wrists and pinned them at the top of her head. She squirmed, trying to buck him off but paused when she felt a strange sensation at her wrists. She tried to look above to understand just _what_ it was that was going on, but no matter which way she turned her head, she could not. The sensation was warm, but not unpleasantly so. It seeped into her veins, seeming to draw away the sharp pain of her broken wrist. She was frozen in surprise—ignoring the man on top of her to try to understand just what it was that was happening. Has she hit her head so hard that she had somehow found herself in a new reality? Things like this _did_ not happen, but considering the day she was having, she might as well throw out that line of thinking. "How are you even doing this?" she muttered to herself in awe, opening and closing her hands in complete fascination when her broken wrist did not throb in protest at all. It was like _magic._ " _Why_ did you even heal me in the first place?" she eyed him warily, coming back to herself when she realized that she was still pinned beneath a psychopath. A psychopath she had released from an ancient diary. A psychopath she had _found_ in a bloody public library.

"Much has been lost in the years I have been trapped in the diary-" he removed his hands from her wrists, and she immediately tried to shove him away. Her hands, however, did not move an inch. " _Magic_ is what sealed me away, and it is what released me from my imprisonment. It is what has allowed me to drain you dry, and revive you from the brink of death. It is what _you_ had, but have lost in the ages." Her head was throbbing with the onslaught of implications and possibilities that this meant. Magic was real? There was a world in the past in which people could do magic? It sounded like an episode of Twilight Zone—nothing making any sense at all, but really, what other explanation could there be? She didn't feel anything holding her hands down, _but there was_. He wasn't _supposed_ to heal a broken bone in mere moments, but somehow, he could. Her ancestor could even do magic? God, Hermione could feel the little patience she had strain.

"This is s-such bullshit," she breathed, squirming when his free hands caressed her arms, the fingertips drawing invisible lines on the exposed flesh. "A-and you still haven't answered my second question!" she hissed, itching to slap his hands away, but unable to do so. He did not pause in his touch, his eyes staring into her own calculatingly as Hermione struggled. She didn't like it—her heart stuttering in panic at how he had savaged earlier. This was not a bloody bodice ripper novel! She was not some daring heroine that needed to be put in her place by some dashing and morally inept hero. Sod it!

"Why, indeed," he mused aloud, the hands drifting from her arms to drape over the folds of her torn shirt. She felt something unpleasant coil in her stomach at the sensation, and she turned her gaze away in order to settle her hysteria. The touches were gentle in nature—nothing like the tight grip he had had on her when he had crushed her wrists. It was something Hermione could not believe he was entirely capable of, and that alone made it more terrifying than any pain he could give her. There was nothing mocking in his eyes, but she could not find it in herself to trust that twinkle in his eye. She doubted she trusted anything nice from him at all.

For a very long time, he didn't say anything. However, his touches did not stop nor did they delve into uncharted territory despite his earlier assault. It was like a switch had been flipped, and it left her reeling in confusion. The man had more mood swings than the year had bloody seasons! "I suppose I can keep you," he broke the silence then, his touch still unbearably soft along her skin, drawing goosebumps wherever they touched.

"I'm not your bloody pet! Just get out and leave me the fuck alone," frustration blatant in her tone. "You can't just do as you please," his touch stopped momentarily at those words, a cruel smirk smoothing across his lips as if he had just heard the most amusing joke.

"How mistaken you are, pet. It would be an oversight on my part not to-" and with an entirely fluid move, he brought his face close to her own, his eyes penetrating her wild brown ones. "- _show_ you that I can," he purred and she felt blood rush to her cheeks in indignation at the inappropriate tone in his voice. Her hands felt clammy with nerves, and the look in his eyes made it rather difficult to maintain contact. But she did—she was not going to be the first to break. "After all-," his lips brushed against her own delicately, a chaste touch compared to his earlier kiss. "-a good master knows when to clip the lion's claws."


End file.
